


Old Gods

by narsus



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-09
Updated: 2011-10-09
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:43:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The myth of the modern era is that old gods are no longer needed.  That myth has no impact whatsoever on the fact that they’re still there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Gods

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat, and obviously in the genesis of it all, to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Greek gods, needless to say, undoubtedly belong to themselves.

In the modern era there isn’t much call for gods. Not the old gods at any rate. Nobody builds shrines to Nemesis or altars to Themis. Nobody curses Eris’ whiles or tells tales of the wrath of Hephaestus. Most mortals get through their day quite happily without ever acknowledging that there were ever old gods in the first place. It’s the sort of situation that modern storytellers like to imagine must make things difficult for deities. They write tales of gods pushed back into the shadows, of lessening powers and dwindling life. In the eyes of modern fable-spinners, the old gods are finished and, if any even remain, they are simply waiting to die. That is the modern fable after all, that man and his industry has surmounted even the creative fires of Hephaestus’ forge.

 

There’s a copy of “American Gods” on the bedside table of the body Hephaestus sometimes inhabits. It wouldn’t be entirely correct to call that body his avatar because at times he does honestly remember who and what he is. On other occasions he forgets entirely. Mostly he dreams in motifs of steel and cable. He dreams of concrete towers and fibre optics, and the revolution that changed the world. He is, after all, Invention, now given human form. Even now, when he doesn’t really do all that much by way of physical creation, he polices the limits of human endeavour. He invents new structures and methods of Order over Chaos. Mostly, he’s successful but occasionally, infrequently, a handful of unpredictable things slip through. Things that he hasn’t foreseen, things that shouldn’t occur, things that bear nothing so much as the hallmarks of Chaos. So he makes them Chaos’ problem to clear up.

Discord and Strife does very little as a general theme. Eris gets bored easily but, unfortunately, the true function of Chaos is to throw up a myriad possibilities. Eris doesn’t get to do much more than lie on the couch and wait for the cards to fall. It’s dull and uninteresting so Discordia collects dead body parts to try to make the days more interesting. It’s hard to tell how much is Eris and how much is the host sometimes. Eris has a tendency to hook miniscule claws into the mind of any host at any given time, and this often results in a shadowy echo of something inhuman that lingers in each human mind. This host, for instance, is wildly disconnected from humanity at the best of times, and seems to entertain itself with cataloguing their idiosyncrasies at an alarming pace. Behaviour that makes Eris welcome Hephaestus’ infrequent calls.

Themis is ever patient, given to wise council. The current mortal shell is similarly disposed. Steady hands, steady aim as required. This mortal manifestation is quiet and unassuming. He is capable of apportioning out lots against the tally of the natural order. Justice prevails, injustice is struck down. Millions die for the greater cause. Themis is quite pleased with the choice of mortal hands just as comfortable holding a teacup as a scalpel. There is something quite beautiful about this compact form. It is tidy and neat in the way that the natural order requires. Perceived as meek and pretty, it has killed and will kill again. It is remorseless. It is, not just, merely inevitable. It follows where the state of nature must lead. It flourishes in the dark and damp cracks in the paving stones, in the places that sanitised humanity would like to forget. This is the natural order of things, the will of a Titan.

Vigilance would be the watchword if only there were an urgency to the watching. There are many, electronic, eyes trained on the arena of course, but Nemesis is hardly inclined to simply sweep down upon the wrong-doer. Those who break faith are punished, but Nemesis engineers such retribution rather than enacting it firsthand. There are too many cheques to be balanced against an eternal system of checks and balances. Far too many things to occupy Nemesis’ now, mortally constrained, attention. It is difficult sometimes to even find the time to eat or at least remind him, this mortal, to eat. He dines in the back seat of cars, at train stations or on aeroplanes. None of it is any good for his heath but, as long as he functions, as long as he serves the purpose to which he has been appointed, Nemesis doesn’t object.

 

Rarely, they meet. Gods in mortal form, wearing human shells. They gather to discuss the news of the day, as if they were merely a mortal gentlemen’s club. They ponder the inevitability of others like them walking the Earth. Of course there _are_ others like them out there. Cedalion lurks at Hephaestus’ side. Clytemnestra strikes down those who fall afoul of Nemesis. Hermes toys with all manner of mortal vanity. Ares occasionally beds Eris. There are probably many more, but gods do not seek out other gods in this grand game of human chess. Instead, those who meet, fight or ally as appropriate. Thus, these four are content to gather, quietly, unassumingly, hiding in mortal shells. Themis sips tea and not wine. Hephaestus tastes the smoke of a cigarette and not the heat of his forge. Eris frowns at the static nature of human life. Nemesis leans on an umbrella and not a sword.

Regardless of form, of common understanding, they are still worshiped. There are still mortals aplenty who cry out for Order, Chaos, justice or simply a natural providence. These are the same mortals who value revenge, care, anger or trickery. Ares alone makes millions simply as a result of their greed. Humanity doesn’t change. Trappings, machinery, publicly accepted morality, are always in motion, but the layers beneath that, the hearts and souls of mortals do not differ. Their prayers still reach divine ears and are still summarily dismissed just as easily. The gods, after all, play their own games for their own amusement. Each has their own plan for the mortal world, regardless of mortal desires.


End file.
